My tennis game was raised by wolves. Abandoned as an infant, it sat in a dark part of the forest for three days crying helplessly. Finally it was discovered by wolves who took it in and nursed it. For 12 years it heard no human sound; it knew only the way of the wolf. By the time I discovered it, shivering, filthy, and naked, snapping wildly on court four of the Glendale Racquet Club, it had killed a thousand times. It was feral and godless and knew no master.

For months I worked with it, patiently describing strategies and pointing to the marked parameters of the court. I lectured it on etiquette and we practiced until my fingers bled. After dinner we studied tapes of Borg vs. McEnroe. I told it about Pete Sampras' mighty serve and Agassi's uncanny returns, about Ashe, Connors, and Becker. It had a thrilling primitive power. In time, I came to love my tennis game, and there were days when I believed that it loved me.

The backhand was a problem, but we worked together, hours every day. I dressed my game in Nike Air Zoom Vapor Speed court shoes and bought it a Head Liquidmetal Radical MidPlus racquet. With a bottle of Evian and headband slightly askew, it almost passed for a domesticated game. Occasionally people would say, 'You know, you've got a terrific little game there.'

But I grew impatient with its backhand. When the second consecutive return sailed over the three-meter mesh fence at a public court, I admit with some shame that, consumed by rage, I hit it. I think my tantrum shocked us both. But my game shaped up. For a while, I was naive enough to believe that I had earned a new respect, that corporal punishment was the answer. In a singles tournament (B Division) at the Glendale, it moved quickly through the ranks, hunting opponents like a predator. It punished them with groundstrokes and fed on their livers.